The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look directly at one another, they seemed to be holding a silent conference. Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows what Semitic, Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal. Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod. I almost doubted that I had intercepted it, and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his fellows. More a shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a glint in them of sudden light—or whatever it was, it carried the message. “Murphy,” the other answered the mate. “Sir!” Mr. Pike snarled at him. Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand. It was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise that impressed me. “When you address any officer on this ship you’ll say ‘sir,’” Mr. Pike explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding. “Did you get _that_?” “Yes . . . sir,” Murphy drawled with deliberate slowness. “I gotcha.” “Sir!” Mr. Pike roared. “Sir,” Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated the mate to further bullyragging. “Well, Murphy’s too long,” he announced. “Nosey’ll do you aboard this craft. Got _that_?” “I gotcha . . . sir,” came the reply, insolent in its very softness and unconcern. “Nosey Murphy goes . . . sir.” And then he laughed—the three of them laughed, if laughter it might be called that was laughter without sound or facial movement. The eyes alone laughed, mirthlessly and cold-bloodedly. Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling personalities. He turned upon the leader, the one who had given the warning and who looked the admixture of all that was Mediterranean and Semitic. “What’s _your_ name?” “Bert Rhine . . . sir,” was the reply, in tones as soft and careless and silkily irritating as the other’s. “And _you_?”—this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a dark-eyed, olive-skinned fellow with a face most striking in its cameo-like beauty. American-born, I placed him, of immigrants from Southern Italy—from Naples, or even Sicily. “Twist . . . sir,” he answered, precisely in the same manner as the others. “Too long,” the mate sneered. “The Kid’ll do you. Got _that_?” “I gotcha . . . sir. Kid Twist’ll do me . . . sir.” “Kid’ll do!” “Kid . . . sir.” And the three laughed their silent, mirthless laugh. By this time Mr. Pike was beside himself with a rage that could find no excuse for action. “Now I’m going to tell you something, the bunch of you, for the good of your health.” The mate’s voice grated with the rage he was suppressing. “I know your kind. You’re dirt. D’ye get _that_? You’re dirt. And on this ship you’ll be treated as dirt. You’ll do your work like men, or I’ll know the reason why. The first time one of you bats an eye, or even looks like batting an eye, he gets his. D’ye get that? Now get out. Get along for’ard to the windlass.”